Page 80 of Take Her

“All right, fine,” he said indulgently. “But remember—playing that card was your only time.”

I exhaled roughly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I do still need to check to see if you’re behaving.”

A thrill of goosebumps ran up my neck and down my arms. “How?”

“Are you in my office? With the door locked?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Good girl,” he purred. “Hitch your skirt up and go sit on my desk.”

I glanced over at it. “Sir?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

“You can move the keyboard over,” he said, and I knew I had.

I walked over and around to his desk’s far side. It was imposing, made of heavy dark wood, and covered with a glass top. I knew what he wanted immediately. I hopped on—and then I hopped off, snapping a quick picture of my ass print on the desk’s top, sending it over quickly. I heard a rustle while he switched to look, and then his laugh as he moved the phone back to his ear.

“Smart girl. So clever.”

I beamed. I could hear the sound of a crowd behind him, and wondered just where he was. “Will I ever get pictures in return?” I asked, as I shimmied my skirt back down.

“That depends. I only promise to give as good as I get.” The commotion cut out and then there was silence, as though he’d entered the lobby of a building. “I need to go now, moth. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.

I stood, staring at his desk for a moment. I couldn’t let the opportunity to get pictures in return from him just go by. If I did, thirteen-year-old me would resurrect herself from whatever internal box I’d put her in and kill me.

Which meant that...I paced in a quick circle, then bounced back up onto his desk again. I spread my knees, lifted my skirt up, and took a succession of photos beneath the fabric with my flash.

They were all not very good—and never in a million years would I, in all the fever dreams of my former life, have imagined myself curating badly composed pictures of my pussy to send to him—yet the desire to see what he’d send me back was overwhelming.

So I clenched my teeth, picked the least bad one, and hit send—hoping that he’d be smarter than to open a text from me in a crowded environment, like, say, on a subway.

And then I went back to all of my other duties, to do as I’d been told.

Right before five, Rhaim sent me a picture of his dick.

He was clearly in a bathroom stall somewhere, there was black and white tile on the floor, and a peek of a black stall wall, but his hand was presenting the main attraction, which was a long, thick erection, with a ridge behind its fat head and a vein rolling down one side—the kind of dick of which, when presented in romance books, instantly became a cock.

Because that’s just what it was.

I texted him back my first thought and reaction.

Good fucking lord.

And he texted me back another shot, his hand around it, circling it to pull it toward the camera, where I could see thick clear fluid dripping from its tip.

And then another, and another—it was clear he’d been stroking himself—he might as well have been sending me a video. My free hand dropped between my legs and started grabbing for my hem. I wanted to touch myself—if he was going to send me a picture of him coming, I wanted to come with him.

But then the pictures stopped.

Do we agree that you owe me now?

Yes

I quickly texted back.

Good—because I need another picture from you, little girl. But this time a very precise one.